


Alice in the Underground

by thinskinnedcalciumsipper



Category: Team Fortress 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-27 04:56:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12574192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinskinnedcalciumsipper/pseuds/thinskinnedcalciumsipper
Summary: silly short pyro origin stuff written for the tf2 amino lol! cw for mentioned sexual abuse and violence, gore, period typical transmisogyny





	Alice in the Underground

**Author's Note:**

> dont watch an anime called osomatsu san

It was the candy man -- not the man that sold candy at the tall teal pharmacy at the sundusted stucco avenue corner of the town, that soft, stooped, whispering, wrinkling man which wore peppermint stripes and an apron and sometimes pressed a sun-bright butterscotch in the palm of her hand with spare change, who was so kind and still alive -- it was, the man that got her, a man from the slum hummock of dilapidated shacks, pump houses, dumps bordering town, before the waste of the deserts, in the crushed tin, trash and sand, sand, sand, a broad, strong, shiny, intensely smelling man, standing in the black axis of his yard hawking candies to any girls whose twinkling asteroid-trails passed through the tendrils of his covetous orbit -- he was a strong smelling and strong man she had seen before (when she was little, she'd hid from social workers in a sheer pit hidden in his foundation) that got her an evening as she returned from town with thirty four cents and a paper bag of black fruit absconded from the stinking red wound of alley beyond the grocery -- that strong man which shouted out across the green evening to her wouldn't she like a candy? A soda pop? Pretty little girl. She knew the odor of alcohol and shouldn't have gone, only the words "pretty little girl" were irresistible to her, entirely irresistible, and candy. He wore a bright brown bottle in his plump pink fist and patched underpants. A carousel horse impaled on a seashell pole rotted in the wilderness of his yard, a lead petticoat of tire rim, an oranged phrase of washing machine growing impossible daisies. Dirty light spilled on his shoulders, his naked legs, his satyric naked crooked feet, the greenwash veranda platter of glass and caps and ash, the corpsical pale threaded weeds.

His smile thinned when she met him, when the infesting light spilled onto her skin -- then alarmingly -- the smile expanded and condensed, filling him with ugliness. His hideous breath closed her in the envelope of oily sallow light. Scrape of bearding, stains. His hand on her wrist. She wanted ice cream. She dreamed of ice cream. His nails hurt her. He smiled.

It was September 1.

She sang; she loved to sing. She loved the unsliced lovely white cream cake of the dawning moon. Pink became the yard, pear, apricot, peach. The man became strawberries. Then raspberries. Then smashed blackberries in her hands. His house was etched in electric lemon yellow. The light became beautifully clean.

Her lawyer asked her not to describe it like that. Then he asked her not to talk.

Her lawyer was nice. He was white and long and slight like a fine lady and smelled beautiful. He brought her a dress. It had been his daughters, who died. Towers of white ruffles like wedding cake, white ribbon like whipped cirrus which cut her thick cooked shoulders. She'd never touched anything so nice. She'd never looked so beautiful than the day she appeared at the competency hearing, the white dress, washed, shoed, the rats, burrs and bugs shorn from her hair. She smiled all around, smiled at the judge, who never met her eye.

She'd done well, she was told. She could have something to eat. No ice cream.

(She'd eaten ice cream before she'd grown hair; a child with a mother dropped it at her feet, and she stuffed it in her with shivering fingers)

She understood they (policemen) found the bones of the men which lived in spring of the acacia glen, a day sunward into the scarlet desert, where she took drugs and hid in some mud her mothers rainbow glass ballerina box -- the fingerbones, toebones, teeth of William Keeler, Gerald Bugge, James Dowdy, Charles Rouse, Francis Sweeney

They (her lawyer, and the other one) agreed she must be hospitalized, and the judge, who would not look at her, agreed.

There were not flowers in the desert, but the creosote, acacia, yucca, the corpsical lithic maidens she tindered in poor Francis Sweeneys yard, while his red bones moaned -- hardy, ugly, arid, hard, like her, like her.

The hospital boasted two beds of red poppies flanking the glass wings of its double doors -- pink stinking succulent-flower leaning on the clinical pale framed maw of patient intake and tides of red poppies -- and she sang. She loved to sing. She loved red.

They thought she was a boy and fed her terrible-tasting candies that made her sleep and sleep, but she sang.

She slept a long time.

She dreamt meadows of poppies lapped the church in which her mother slept and the church burned.

She dreamt her face like kohl and rouge was swiped away.

She dreamt of the taste of mens crisp, sticky skin.

She woke, and the nurse, a pretty, black-haired, bespectacled lady, a very pretty young lady in a violet dress and competent smile sat at her side, and held out to her a pink papered cone like a unicorns horn inverted and filled with soft green orbs of ice cream.

The pretty lady told her, in Spanish, she had a job for her.


End file.
